


to love is to bleed

by joanofarcstan



Series: Tolkien Gen Week 2020 [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Dagor Bragollach, Gen, Introspection, Tolkien Gen Week - Freeform, Without a happy ending, and we love suffering, because it’s the silm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:40:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25114066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joanofarcstan/pseuds/joanofarcstan
Summary: A moment before Fingolfin’s famous—and final—ride to battle.
Series: Tolkien Gen Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818994
Comments: 14
Kudos: 23
Collections: Tolkien Gen Week 2020





	to love is to bleed

The ice crunches beneath Fingolfin’s boots.

 _Fingolfin._ Yes, that is his name now, not Ñolofinwë or Aracáno, names he has not used in centuries and would have long forgotten if not for the memories they wake that warm him momentarily before dissipating, as a sun that peeks out its rays before hiding behind the clouds again, leaving everything greyer and colder than before. He is Fingolfin Finwë’s son, eldest of the Ñoldor princes in Beleriand.

He is High King above his people. It is he who leads them against the Darkness, he who orders them into battle, he who governs where and when they will lose their lives.

It is he who has their blood on his hands. He is not a kinslayer. Those two statements seem like they should not exist side by side, occupying the same space, but they do. History is made of irony, say the poets, and irony out of truth.

So history is made out of truth. Is it?

Fingolfin thinks back:

It is a truth that the Valar saw them not as equals. It is a lie that the Valar reigned over them as masters to thralls.

It is a truth that they fight Morgoth because he has committed unpardonable crimes. It is a lie that they have not committed unpardonable crimes themselves.

It is a truth that they slew their kin for jewels. It is a lie that they slew their kin for jewels.

It is a truth that their story is a tragedy, because it was undeserved. It is a lie that their story is a tragedy, because it was deserved.

So there are truths and lies and truths that are lies and lies that are born of truths. Fingolfin revises the statement: History is made of irony, and irony is made of tragedy.

So history is woven of tragedy. That seems an apt description.

There are no graves here. There are no memorials to the dead of the Ice, or the War, or the Kinslaying, or grief. There are no hymns sung to rest their souls, for their souls shall not find rest in the Halls, though they be named a place of healing in the ancient lore.

(There are laments, and those aplenty, but lament are not hymns, except to Tragedy.)

But there are names, and it is funny, Fingolfin thinks, how a heart can have name after name after name obliterated from it with a blunt anvil without ever being crushed to powder too fine to be reconstructed. Or, if you are partial to blood, Fingolfin thinks, how his heart can have those names carved into it again and again with sadistic precision and bleed and bleed and bleed without ever running out of blood.

(Perhaps it means he does not truly love, for he never fades. Yet if he has not loved, what is this heartbreak that goes before a fall?)

There are names, so many of them, and he can recite them perfectly. Elenwë, to the Ice. _Tick._ Lalwen, taken prisoner. _Tick._ Turgon, disappeared. _Tick._ Aredhel, disappeared. _Tick._ Amrod, to the burning ships. _Tick._ (And the younger went before the elder…) Fëanor, to the Balrogs. _Tick._

It is almost clinical, this mental ticking of boxes beside names, and Fingolfin is not sure if he should be relieved or terrified.

Now there are Angrod and Aegnor, his nephews he promised Arafinwë—for that is still how he thinks of his younger brother, not that ugly Sindarized version, since Arafinwë is still whole and hale in Tirion, in body and in spirit—he would take care of. Angrod and Aegnor, to the rivers of fire Morgoth sent through their lands. _Tick, tick._

Fingolfin revises the statement once more: History is made of irony, and irony is made of tragedy, and tragedy is made of promises.

So history is built on rusted promises that crumble when you touch them.

Lalwen, Turgon, Aredhel, Amrod, Elenwë, Idril, Angrod, Aegnor. So the younger go before the elder who are sworn to protect them. Yes, this is irony. Yes, this is tragedy.

Yes, history is as the clear water that you reach out to touch, only for it to freeze at your fingertips and do nothing but sting and scrape, then and ever after. And poetry is made of pain, for there is nothing to do but to bleed. To bleed until you can bleed no more, and then some.

 _Who were we before?_ Fingolfin wonders. _Who were we before we learned that to live is to die, and to love is to lose?_

_Who were we before the fall?_

But there is no answer, just as there never has been. ( _There is no one to answer your prayers in Beleriand, child. You must answer them yourself._ )

Fingolfin pulls the straps of his armour secure. He draws Ringil from its sheath, shining with a fierce and terrible light against the grey snow and skies. It is a blade that has served him well. ‘Serve me once more, my friend,’ he whispers to it, bowing his head almost in offering, and replaces it by his side.

_I promise that I will not let a child go before me again while I live._

History is made of irony. Irony is made of tragedy. Tragedy is made of promises.

And oh, there is poetry in the pain and triumph in the fall.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! comments are always welcome here, or come talk to me on tumblr @[laurierliberal](%E2%80%9C)!


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